A year ago I felt hopeless. I was a few months out of journalism school, patching together freelance gigs and sending out resumes. I clicked through days, alternating digging myself into an Internet hole and blankly staring at the Golf Channel. I watched a lot

New York, are you not happy to see me? Tomorrow I’m moving to the city, the city. I’m tired, I’m huddled, I yearn to breathe free. I’m coming, open; open those gates. Who am I? I’m the last person that wanted to come. And it hit

Note: This is a post of a longform story Tim did for a magazine class at Northwestern. The news might be a bit old, but the facts of the situation still hold pretty true. It’s an in depth look at the bleachers by

*Note: This is a posting of Tim’s longform journalism project about oil boomtown Williston, ND, completed at Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism–in other words, this story is a lot longer and more in depth than your usual Tumult post. THE LONG SHADOW OF

I found Future Islands for myself by total accident. The whole thing was serendipitous. I hardly ever watch Letterman. I think that night I tuned in because I had heard Marc Maron, or somebody else, talk about Letterman’s legacy—maybe it was Bill Simmons who said

2014 was a weird year. We traveled to North Dakota (I tweeted a lot), ran half a marathon, played a lot of ping pong, then graduated from Medill. Mike moved to New York, and Tim moved home. Through it all, one thing was constant—music. I saw

This isn’t a think piece about the Colbert Report’s final episode. Not another one. Not another summary of Stephen Colbert’s impact because we get it. He meant a lot, and, man, looking back, he did a lot. There was nothing like him, like that character.

It’s 12:49 a.m. and I want to write something. My computer is at nine percent battery, my charger is downstairs and I’m in bed. But you can’t not get the writing out. Ah, screw going back to change that double negative. Let’s rage against the

It takes a lot to get words out, when nobody is telling you what to do. It’s a long process. While you’re doing it, it’s damn hard. Let’s get a bit meta here about that last sentence. I decided “damn” would do when an f-bomb

I stood at the 17th tee Monday, squinting at the fairway of the 417-yard par 4. A left miss is preferred, with more space before going out of bounds, and just a light dotting of trees. The right side is tight. Three long bunkers line